


how the thought of you does things to me

by misgivings (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, General Creepiness, Gore, M/M, Obsession, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:29:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/misgivings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'd lick his blood from between your fingers, you'd covet his screams and pleas, you'd worship every part of him, individually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how the thought of you does things to me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by (but not a fill for nor completely following) [this prompt](http://homesmut.livejournal.com/15023.html?thread=29263023#t29263023) on the kmeme. While I've listed some of the more obvious triggering tags here, I didn't want to get too specific, so please note that this is about a slightly unhinged Dirk who may or may not become more unhinged over time, and his less than innocent crush on Jake. Anyone patently not okay with what Dirk does in the first few paragraphs should turn back, it gets creepier.

Jake has a nosebleed and his blood is bright and shiny, candy red (cherry Starburst come to mind, sweet and heavy on your tongue), where it's dripping on his upper lip. It takes him a moment to realize it, and another few to find a tissue box, muttering about fiddlesticks and the like under his breath. You watch him, transfixed.

He doesn't notice, too preoccupied with wiping at his nose, grimacing as blood gets on his hands, under his fingernails. After a moment he excuses himself, sheepishly to go to the bathroom and wash his hands.

When he gets back there's one less used tissue in the garbage.

(You hold it sometimes, softly so it doesn't break, looking at his dried blood, so beautiful and dark, wishing it was fresh, wishing he was yours.)

.

It starts with little things, with knowing things.

Things that no one else knows, that you worm out of him, taking special care that he doesn't catch on to what you're doing. Accidental, awkward queries, jokes that he answers with an endearing amount of sincerity. All answers treated as arbitrary facts, rather than things you sear into your memory.

He sleeps on the left hand side of his bed, so you shift to sleep on the right side of yours. He's never had Chinese food, and doesn't like the sound of it, so you stop eating it altogether. He likes watching movies in the middle of the night, and so do you, a shared trait that you gloss over in conversation, but replay over and over in your mind.

The two of you are perfect, oh so, so perfect for one another. You just have to get him to realize it.

Slow and steady, precise and calculating, you aren't worried at all.

.

You say his name out loud to yourself sometimes, tongue rolling over the syllables, teeth clacking on hard consonants. You say it normally after spitting toothpaste out of your mouth. You say it with a slight drawl when you're half asleep, eyes shut tight. You say it low and in the back of your throat, cock in hand, the last bit of his name getting lost in a gasped moan.

It's the equivalent of a middle school girl writing her crush's name on the pages of her notebook. You're sitting in the back of class, painfully shy, and Jake's the jock stud. Nice and well meaning, he'll let you borrow the notes from yesterday's class, sure.

But he doesn't want to bend you over the teacher's desk and fuck you.

Not yet, anyway.

.

Jake's visits are few and far between. You've got the money to fly him out to the city, of course, but he doesn't like it much. Complains at night that what are background noises to you (car alarms, steady hum of the refrigerator, the bass of music playing a few floors below your apartment) are preventing him from falling asleep.

Sometimes it grates, although gently, on your nerves. It's not easy, after all, to get uncharted flights to fly out to an island most people have forgotten exists, if they even knew about it in the first place. Everyone has their price, and everything was left to you after–but it's still a scratch on an otherwise harmonious record.

Everyone has their flaws, you think, leaning against the doorjamb of the kitchen, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, noting the way his right hand is in place on his hip, reaching for a gun that isn't there.

Jake, Jake, Jake, if his only flaws are that he's ungrateful, sometimes, and more than a little impatient, you can live with that. You lick your lips and imagine licking his tan skin, imagine digging your nails into his back, tearing him, ripping him, _claiming_ him. Oh, he's wonderful now, but he'd be beautiful once you got done with him.

You can deal with what flaws he does have, in pursuit of all the perfection he offers.

.

Cold arms wrap around you, deathly pale, dirt under fingernails. Where he touches you, your skin burns, bubbles, boils, pain so blinding you can't even open your mouth to scream. His lips at the shell of your ear, words whispered so softly it's like they were never even said. And you wake with a start, breathing uneven and sheets soaked with sweat. There is no one to run to, no one to recount nightmares to, no one to comfort you.

No one to hear you cry.

.

His figure is a study in tan and muscle, but only just so. He's shorter than you, with younger features. Cheeks still slightly round with baby fat, mouth red, and he tends to leave it hanging open when he lapses into thought.

You are enraptured, you are enthralled, you are encased in emotions you never even thought you were capable of experiencing.

You wonder what he sees when he looks at you. You wish you could slice him open, crawl inside and find out.

You settle for just thinking about it, because you do not want your darling, dearest, dead.

Someday, maybe, but not today.

.

Dry mouth, lips chapped, you imagine kissing him.

Biting at his bottom lip, bruising it, marking him as your own. God, you want so badly. Pulse racing under your own thumb, and breathing heavy, longing hanging in the air like dust in late afternoon sunbeams. He is so close, but you can't touch, you remind yourself, not yet, just a little longer.

Your own laugh sounds deranged in your ears, too loud and too–but he laughs too, kicking his legs back and forth and continuing on with his story, voice high and hands gesticulating. You follow the twists and turns of his fingers, you lean as close as you dare to and pretend he wants you closer.

You go further, imagining his cock in your mouth, just the head, at first, but you take more and the sounds he makes are soft and needy. He begs for it, he wants it, not that there was ever any doubt in your mind that he would, it was just a matter of _when_. And you stand, poised on the edge of something you can never come back from, ready to give him everything–

He touches your knee, asks if you're listening, and of course you are.

You've gotten good at this.

.

If you could you would cut him into pieces.

You'd lick his blood from between your fingers, you'd covet his screams and pleas, you'd worship every part of him, individually.

The definition in his jaw, the curve of his neck into his shoulder, the back of his neck, unblemished and smooth. You'd touch the edges of his wounds, dismembering him joint by joint. You don't want to hurt him, but you want, so desperately, to see him hurt. You don't want him to be in pain, but you want, more than anything, to make him feel something.

You want to see how he works, so that you might be able to control him.

You want him broken, so that you can fix him.

(But you know, if you're the one to break him, that he will never forgive you.)

.

Concrete and gravel press into your bare back and you grit your teeth. Blood slowly streams down the left side of your face from a gash above your eyebrow. Hands shaking, it's just after midnight, the sky is pitch black. You've long since stopped looking for stars, they never show themselves to you.

Scratching at your neck ( _skin, get through the skin, break through to your vocal cords, rip_ ) will dull nails, kicking at the ground, your face is wet and you have no idea why.

There are shadows everywhere, and they move so fast you can't pinpoint where they are.

Pushed over the edge, you feel weightless as you laugh, falling all the way down.

.

Voice barely audible, you tell him, while he sleeps, what you want to do to him.

Such a heavy sleeper, you murmur sweet nightmares as you kneel on the floor, in front of where he's snoring softly on the futon in your living room.

Cock hard, you palm yourself through your jeans, whispering your dreams of capturing him and keeping him, never letting him get away. Oh, you think he would look so lovely, trapped and scared and yours, most of all, _yours_.

Pausing as he shifts, turning on his side, back to you now. His shirt twisted up around him, the small of his back exposed, skin lighter than elsewhere on his body, and it's all you can do not to touch him. Still, you reach out, two fingers just above bare skin.

You come in your jeans at the thought of holding him there when he's on top of you, holding him so tight his skin breaks and bruises. Holding him so tight he can't move, can't breathe, can't leave.

.

Stomach in knots, you tell him.

He's gracious, he's gentlemanly, he's good-natured, he says he can't return your feelings, but he still wants to be friends.

You smile as something inside you breaks.

.

Lashing out, and breaking things, and honestly, _honestly_ , it's an accident.

(Gasping in deep breaths, you're sorry, you didn't mean it, you're _sorry_.)

Twisting his words to meet your purpose, but, no, you don't have to do that. Not anymore. His words are starting to echo what you wish he would say to you.

(You didn't mean–it wasn't supposed to be like that, it wasn't.)

Reaching out as far you dare to, like shaking palms over naked flesh. Reverent like a lowly servant meeting the one who owns him.

(Muffled sobs, kicking against shower walls, biting the palm of your hand, and you can never apologize for what you have done, you can never take it back.)

And, oh, he owns you, completely and wholly, forevermore.

.

You enter him as slowly as you possibly can, hands oh his thighs. He's motionless, just barely breathing, the entire left side of his face caked with dry blood. He feels like heaven around you, it's almost too much. Leaning forward you lick his cheek, taste his blood in your mouth, the tang of iron so sweet to your senses.

You try in vain to hold him close to you, but he's dead weight, and he falls back onto your bed unceremoniously as your hips move forward into him, again and again and again and you think he might be bleeding down there, too, and you moan at the very idea of it.

There's a tiny part of you, in the back of your throat, on the edge of your conscience, that feels guilty and conflicted. The very last bit of you that remains, it screams in protest, it sobs for you to stop, it pleads for you to think this over, because this isn't like you, not at all, and won't you _please_ –

That part of you leaves as you come, still inside him, bowing your head to him, telling him how perfect he is, how good he feels, a litany of praises falling from your mouth, and he smiles at you, says your name like a prayer and doesn't fight when you kiss him.

Finally, finally.

He tastes like vomit and blood and everything else you could have ever hoped for.

He's still out cold and you hold him as tight to you as you can, apologizing over and over again.

It will never be enough.

.

He wakes up screaming, when you cut into his chest. His eyes are wide and frightened. You put a finger to your lips and, though your hands are shaking, your incision is precise. He struggles, but you're on top of him and you have his arms bound. His green eyes are so pretty as they widen, his lips so lovely as he screams himself hoarse.

You stroke the side of his jaw, and he freezes, looking at you like he can't believe this is happening, like he wants you to tell him this is a dream.

Softly, so softly, you kiss him on the lips, and he lets you, even leans into it, but it's too late, you think, too late.

You cut deeper and deeper (oh, no one will ever take him away from you now) until you can see how beautiful his insides are.

Oh, he's so perfect.


End file.
